


a vision was drowned by a burning sky

by boywiththerose



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction
Genre: Angst, Bottom Louis, M/M, Smut, larry stylinson - Freeform, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boywiththerose/pseuds/boywiththerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry's addicted. louis is breaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a tornado meets a volcano

**Author's Note:**

> story is purposefully written in lowercase to make reading flow better. enjoy.

the shoebox under the bed is beckoning him, like some sort of toxic magnet that'd completely tear his being apart if he opened it. the thing is his arm always seems to move on his own accord and it's far too late to regret it when the deed has been done, and so, he reaches for the worn out box who's label is no longer recognisable under water damage and torn cardboard, but it's not that the box itself matters–it really doesn't. he'd always thought his very existence was a box–the human existence itself was a box. years were the tokens that allowed you the access to the fragile glass case of anything that could fill the hollow echo of an emptiness that came with existing–the choice of items was yours. it was always your choice. some filled the hollowness with music, notes and air and beautiful fading violins filling square inches of a perfect square something, but not harry's. what filled his existence was drugs. what filled his body was drugs. his box was an intoxicated war zone of white clouds, stinging nostrils and bloody noses–his existence was never really fully exasperated, but his box was. 

he liked to believe his being hurt so terribly that numb highs and levelled limbs in a different, parted planet was a mere justification for being utterly fucked up, but he knew that was a crumbling facade. even in his highs his eyes refused to believe and pierce into the cause of his appalling state, and it wasn't because he couldn't bring himself to, but because it hurt too much addressing such a soul shattering truth. 

as he parted the even white powder on the old coffee table with a credit card that'd deemed itself useless two years prior, he knew the truth. his nostrils so raw snot no longer created itself at the back of his throat, powder seeping into it, and he knew. escapes to the white numbing heaven was bombed down with droplets of red that seemed to drop like missiles onto the glass, and the blood seemed to fall too fast and dry too quickly, milliseconds between pain and numbness, the world in between something harry ached to chase, but it moved like picture film as he moved like a parted cloud–it was impossible.

“that's your fifth hit today, harry–stop,” louis whispers, but words are wasted in this situation–preaching to the convinced, putting out a fire with fire hands tied so tight it seems as if you've forgotten they're still there. harry doesn't listen, harry doesn't care. 

louis has seen this scenario too many times to be phased–that shouldn't be normal occurrences, but it is. harry fills his body with highs as louis tries to make a living for himself and addict of a boyfriend. it's self destruction, but it's beautiful. it's like some dramatic irony, where he fights himself and watches some film of another version of his being saying one thing, and doing the complete opposite, and it's so idiotic that he almost hates to admit that he does this every day, says he'll go, but each day ends up here again. 

the diagnosis of anxiety at age sixteen hadn't been an earth shocking one for harry, because he'd known for quite a while there was something different about him–the way his hands would shake in large crowds, how his heart would be in his throat at loud sounds and overthinking ended in meals in the toilet and shattered skin–he was built of pitiful anxiety. alprazolam was his guardian. anxiety medication that he then became addicted to in the purest of ways–a high in exchange for anxiety. who could turn that down? soon simple pills weren't enough, and the 3 am streets of london had introduced him to a guilty pleasure spaced out by credit cards. 

harry laughed lightly, olive eyelids fluttering closed in languid motions, and he looked almost made of liquid on the old couch, his limbs moving at ease as if a small breeze stretched it's limbs to rock his body to sleep, and louis was scared. the drugs morphed him into someone he didn't know–cocaine tangled itself into his brain, high fingers tangling themselves into his brain, behind his eyes, squeezing until his skin became a little paler and his thoughts no longer his own. louis loved him–loved him more than life itself, his box full of green eyes and warm touches and the ragged moans filled with purity, no drugs to coat the only moments when harry was sane and present–they slipped away farther and farther now. the boy he'd fallen in love with in uni was no longer that boy, but god did he love him–he was absolutely, irrecoverably gone for him. 

“c'mere,” harry murmured, tongue caught between his teeth as he stared at louis, and it was frightening because he didn't know this man–he didn't want to know this man. the flat was too cold, and louis then remembered they'd been two months behind on their rent payment, causing the property agent to rid them of AC and hot water, and it hurt. it hurt him to live in such a hell with a boy who was both his saviour and his downfall. 

he couldn't even bring himself to look at harry–his eyes didn't even seem that they were his own, green overtaken by some shade of a dark forest and he could swear it was the shade of pines in a horror movie–it was a shade anyone would run away from. 

and it wasn't that he'd ever hurt him because god even when high harry was just–harry. his thoughts overriding with highs but he'd never dare to lay even as much as a feather weight finger on louis, but louis wasn't stupid, either. in high school he'd learned about it–it was a sort of abuse that was so indirect yet so present it ate away at souls like crumbling pastries, overcooked, dry, forgotten and bland. it was abuse that was two parts unwanted and three parts manipulation. harry played those parts well, and so each day louis came home from work, back screaming to sit and head screaming to run, his heart always seemed to claw onto harry's like some toy game. a coin for a chance–a chance to be pried and clawed, out of a box. he'd come home from work, knowing he barely made enough to have decent weekly meals, worked so hard to fucking stay poor, and it wasn't fair because he pretended he didn't see the fifty dollars harry stole out of his wallet each week, but he knew. he pretended he didn't cry each night in the ice cold tub remembering the warm water had gone with his self respect and sanity, and he hated himself for letting harry fuck him each night with blown irises and bloody noses–it was so wrong but he was so gone, so gone for the sliver of beauty, the light kisses just there, barely there breathing life into suffocating lungs, but it was there. with a bed smelling of cinnamon and a boy so warm he could just forget, but that wasn't sugar nor salt on the table and the dry blood was a pain to scrape off, but he loved him. he loved him. 

each night, louis forgave him. he'd cry in the silence of the thick air at 3 am, but he forgave him, and he'd sworn he'd never be this person, but it seemed like the situation had grabbed his hand and ran. louis was tired, but it kept running, dragging him, dragging his body through jagged edged and thick nothingness, and he hated himself. he didn't want to need harry but he needed him so fucking bad. he'd thought of leaving–leaving harry in that horrible flat and never looking back, and he'd packed a bag more times than he could count, then he'd look at the couch, and there he was. harry's pink lips pouted in the prettiest way under his hands, head rested at the armrest of the couch, eyelids so pretty, small snores escaping the lips that changed colours with the weather, and louis couldn't, he couldn't leave to never see the green eyes that gleamed like the sunlight itself, and it hurt him far more to think of losing him than to stay with him. 

“i love you, lou–you know that?” harry's voice is so soft, and it melts louis' walls down, melts him to the core–that's his boy. 

he can't bring himself to respond, instead he just sits himself on harry's lap, his fingers on his warm shoulders, chapped lips meeting smooth ones, clashing like lava and ice and it burns but louis doesn't want it to end. louis can see a red tint in harry's nostrils, his breaths jagged and short, and his heart aches. he wants to help harry, but he's never out of the daze, it seems. he wants to rid him of whatever ache it is he has in his chest, whatever emptiness he has that causes nothing but drugs to be able to fill it, and louis would be lying if he ever said it didn't hurt that he wasn't enough for harry to give it all up. 

“pretty boy–my boy's s'pretty,” harry whispered, his hot fingers pressing into louis' hips, and this is what louis lived for, the moments when harry was halfway to paradise and halfway lost in louis' eyes. he knew harry truly loved him, and yes he fucked up all through his life, but people had left and hurt him and abandoned him, and he'd stayed back in that time. he was stuck in the past, so broken, stuck together with a shitty glue that left residue on his top lip. 

when they'd met, harry was a beautiful boy with a pretty voice that made louis feel like he was the only boy to ever exist, and he'd never thought something so pretty could be so destructive, so deconstructed, pieces missing and wrong ones pressing themselves like salt to open wounds and jagged edges–he loved him thoroughly. people who brought destruction were beautiful people who had been hurt themselves, and louis knew this. he knew that harry was kind, under layers of thick skin and pained nerves, he was beautiful. just as beautiful as changing lips and green eyes, he was exquisitely the purest manifestation of art. 

louis really believed that whatever they had–whatever this was, it didn't matter in the moments where he couldn't catch his breath, heart leaping with nothing else he could name besides love. all it was, was love. and maybe this love was more challenging, more difficult, but it was still love, and if the universe had sickly, painfully somehow dealt louis and harry the worst hand it had, they weren't giving up. they couldn't give up. 

louis kissed him back feverishly, truly believing if his lips didn't leave marks on his skin that he'd disappear right under him, and maybe he already had, in a more tragic way of having him there but not having him there. 

“i'm sorry, louis–i'm sorry,” harry whispered, and louis knew he was crying before a warm tear fell from his cheek and onto harry's chin. he knew harry hated what he did to him–to both of them, and when harry gently held louis' body under him, rocking his hips in a beautiful, slow rhythm, shattering moans filling the shattered home, he knew what he was living for. harry was so gentle, so loving. 

“i.love.you.more.than.any.drug,” harry moaned each word in between thrusts, and louis cried, because part of him believed it was true–he wanted it to be true so badly, with every part of his weak being, and he knew somewhere deep inside of himself, harry did believe he could overcome this, and louis believed it as well. 

“h-harry,” louis moaned, fingernails trailing down harry's back, their couch squeaking and groaning, harry never speeding his rhythm, leaning down as his hips bucked to capture louis' lips in between his own, warm saliva building a bridge between them, a bubble of spit bursting in the air as harry's deep moans vibrated in the air–he wanted to speed his hips up, an ache so deep in his toes, but he didn't, because louis needed this–he wanted harry to love him, not fuck him. he wanted harry to engulf him in a box of safety, a box of pretty heat and slurred words and cracking voices, he wanted harry to want him for what he was–he wanted harry to make love to him because his mind believed louis was love defined deep in him. without louis he was nothing.

louis felt the heat building in his stomach, a pretty flower blossoming deep within his body, and that was his safety. the way harry filled him up so deliciously, body parts in sync holding onto each other like linked tracks leading to something so beautiful. harry's unwashed curly hair stuck to his forehead with a thick layer of sweat, jaw clenched and green eyes rolled back, louis sounding so pretty and needy under him, incoherent words of pure love and no judgements, no addictions between them but each other and a heat they'd learned to take together so well. 

long fingers tangled in louis' hair that smelt of peaches and laundry detergent, hints of a little something that enticed harry to the point of seeing stars in his vision, a sight so pretty underneath his body that no amount of lines or dilated eyes could give him. louis had all of him, completely unapologetically his, mess and all. pain and all. 

“i'm n-nearly there, lou,” harry muttered, words hissed between his teeth as he struggled to not snap his hips as powerful as he wanted to, but he loved it like this–slow pressure building in his torso so slowly like a song reaching it's bridge, and louis wasn't that far himself. he found hold on harry's slippery biceps, nails digging into tattooed skin, ears on fire and air so thick it was suffocating. 

“won't ever leave you–won't ever s-stop loving you,” louis moaned, biting his lip as harry reached his prostrate, thighs twitching and toes curling, and that was it. 

“lou,” harry whined, his deep voice cracking with pure want, his head dropping to louis' neck as he rode out his high, chest clenching so tightly it could've been mistaken for a heart attack, and it was a strange thing–that always seemed to let harry reach his orgasm–the reassurance of louis' lustful voice placing a seed in his heart that grew, a seed that grew like wildfire each time louis promised he'd never leave him.


	2. the waves don't stop on account of me

the physical manifestation of the word addiction was not pretty. louis had believed for the longest time that those damned novels and films were always the only way to go about it–pretty girls with pink cheeks and meals poured into toilets. pretty boys with perfect scattered lines on their arms hidden so well under pretty skin. pretty, shaky fingers spreading lines so carefully, a home full of warmth and money and god knew what else as they entered the body. to hell with pretty. addiction wasn't pretty. addiction was unpaid bills and sessions of crying so brutally your throat felt like something begged to crawl out from the muscles. addiction was bleeding nostrils and migraines so painful the flicker of a lightbulb could send you into a fit of sobs. addiction wasn't a pretty boy with green eyes and a smile that could put any constellation to shame–addiction was a boy lost in dark pupils and smells of vomit and drugs and pure hate. pretty was a fantasy and addiction was reality. louis now knew this, and hell did it hurt to know the truth about such a glorified word. no one thought much of it, to say they were addicted to something. used every day so simply that the word rolled off the tongue as simple as a pretty one, although it was anything but that. 

life was not perfect, and ugly words did not hold pretty meanings or pretty physical existences. he so wished addiction was a pretty word sprouting flowers and smells of warm tea and peaches–that was harry's favourite scent. but that wasn't reality. and reality had hit louis far too late in the whirlwind he'd spun for himself. he felt it in his gut and in the way his stomach sizzled and flopped so drastically he couldn't bear to open his eyes in fear of being sick. what harry was was not pretty–it had been an ugly word for an ugly reality, and louis knew.

as louis sat in his mum's home, eyes burning and itching with warm tears, he knew the earth shattering pain and reality of addiction. 

one week. one week had passed since louis had called it quits with harry. the straw that broke the camels back had been the day louis received his paycheque, £800 in it's glorified pity. that wasn't even enough to pay the rent, louis reminded himself. an old lavender cookie jar held all the money louis had ever attempted to save up for a rainy day. but they all were. rent payments queued up and the day louis paid one month off, another followed the list, and each time, the jar emptied itself and louis had to fill it up again. all days were rainy days in a way much different to liquids falling from the dark clouds. it was a sort of rain that seeped from his heart and out of his eyes. breathing in water and choking in the shower as he cried underneath the cold stream of pure fucked up reality. the day harry had emptied all £1800 out of the jar was the moment louis had lost it. all of that money, gone, spread on their coffee table and into harry's bleeding nostrils. louis had cried, yelled, smashed the jar harry had given him their first Christmas together. back when harry had some viable sanity–when harry was harry. harry had cried, voice shattering far greater than the jar, but louis didn't care–he couldn't let himself be engulfed in the tornado of a mess his boyfriend was. louis' heart ached and he cried, his whole body magnetic towards harry, and tearing himself away felt like he was tearing his own muscle from bone, and he'd be damned if he said it didn't hurt, but that was the reality of addiction. it wasn't pretty–it hurt. the suitcase had already been packed, and it was the first time louis had picked it up and walked away with it, tight fists like a warning to not look back. he didn't. 

200 missed calls, 45 voicemails, 100 messages. harry had called every day, texted every day, not giving up to reach the boy long gone, but louis couldn't even bear to see his name flashing on the screen, the only fresh memory he had now of the boy was their last night together, the night louis had promised harry he'd never leave. he always did, though. those words were like a glue that held harry together, a temporary fix that seemed to last enough to not drive both of them insane–but always temporary. it seemed that's all their relationship was–empty promises in the heat of the moments when they'd pretend everything was okay. 

louis couldn't help but to be engulfed in self-pity; how couldn't he be if he'd just left the one person he loved more than anything in the world? it fucking hurt, so bad, but it was a pain in his fingertips, a pain in his chest and his mind so deep he wanted to be cut open and made hollow to just stop the feelings of everything and nothing all at once. not even his mum had words of encouragement for him, because the reality was, it hurt, and nothing anyone said or did could numb that sort of pain. 

he was worried about harry, and god did he hate himself for it, but he couldn't help the thought of him not being okay. he knew harry wasn't okay without him, because louis was the only person who took care of him, the only person who loved him. harry's addiction had inevitably pushed his mum and sister away, and they never bothered to drive by on the holidays or give him a nice call, because harry had pushed away their open hearts filled with unconditional love. harry didn't want it, and so they showed him what it was like to live without it. harry had done it all to himself, really, but louis–louis blamed the drugs. it was pitiful, he knew, but he also knew that the drug addicted harry was not harry. white puffs of evil had pulled him away, one fibre of his being by the next until harry lost himself, and louis knew that this was the speech of a fool, but he believed it. 

his phone buzzed with a new voicemail, causing louis to stare at his phone for a while, nose dripping and red eyes puffy. he needed to hear his voice again. and so, he played it. 

“Lou–it's been a week, and i miss you. it feels like a piece of my fucking heart has been burned away, and i can't fix it. i need you here with me. it's been a week and it feels like it's been ages. i haven't slept, haven't eaten,” louis' throat bobbed with incoming tears at the sound of harry's pained voice, shaky and fast, contrasting his usual slow talk and confidence. harry really was hurting. 

“my phone's being disconnected next week–i haven't got a job so i won't be able to pay any of the bills, the land agent's already given me the eviction notice. if you've cut me off for good, i don't blame you, lou. it's my fucking fault–the mess that i created was a domino effect that fucked everything around me, and i've lost you. but i wont ever stop loving you. i won't. even if you want me to, if you were to spit in my face and stomp on my heart, i won't ever quit. i'm leaving the flat next week, but your stuff is still here. you can come get it when i'm gone. i've packed it all for you in some boxes the agent gave me. i love you, lou. i always will. i-i'm so fucking sorry, for everything. please look after yourself, lou, for me. do for yourself what i never could. i wish i could have given you the world–it's what you deserve, i'm just a fucked up good for nothing addict. i tried to fix the jar, but the pieces were too small to line up. they're in a baggy under the sink, if you want to keep them. i love you. i love you so much. i love you with my whole being, lou.”

louis doesn't realise he's crying until a sob gets caught in his throat and it erupts into a horrific yell, and his heart is in his throat, he could vomit, the pain is so severe. harry sounded so damn broken–so not okay with the fact he had to walk away but knowing there was no other option. 

louis can't bring himself to read any of his texts, or listen to any of his voicemails, it just hurts too much. hurts too much to know he's gone. his heart aches, like the strings of his heart are back with harry–attached and rooted with him. cutting the strings means tearing his heart, and god damn it, does it hurt, so bad. and when he met harry, it wasn't like he ever knew it'd happen this way. he never knew love could be so wicked and twisted–and maybe this was how it's supposed to be, and no matter how much louis loved harry, or vice versa, the cards just weren't in their favour. when they'd met it was all a beautiful heaven of perfect touches and words and green eyes clashing with blue, like a sea rocking under thick clouds. it was a storm, though. colours couldn't clash without spilling, seeping, running into one another and splitting apart like bombs on soil–it had all been a brewing storm. 

louis sips on his tea, but each evening it ends up in his toilet, and some part of him feels filthily guilty–guilty knowing harry is being kicked out, to most likely live on the street doing god knows what, and his phone will be disconnected, having no way to contact him again. he has shut harry out completely, and he hates himself for feeling so utterly guilty, wishing his emotions were thicker and thoughts straight, but it was impossible, to completely leave behind the one you love. if you love someone, set them free–what bullshit that was, utter shit. perhaps that quote was unfinished, perhaps the writer of this quote, whoever they were, wanted to completely fuck over anyone who ever fell in love. because yes, louis loved harry, and yes, he'd let him go, but where was the part where your heart would concave on itself? where you'd cry so hard you'd vomit out anything in your system, sobs choking you in your sickness, fingers trembling and lips raw from dehydration and self-hate–where was that part? the part where the lovers part and all that's left is a cold, abandoned flat and shattered lavender jars. 

*

louis dreams of harry that night, and he wakes up with a hollow, yet heavy heart. it's that type of dream so realistic and vivid that you wake up wondering if you'd been dreaming at all, heart beating a million beats a minute. he awakens and he swears he can feel harry on his skin, hear his laugh and feel the warmth of his pretty cheeks. a warm home. it felt warm. he's not next to harry, though, and he feels completely defeated. for those few hours, everything had felt okay, but it hurt him all the same to know the old harry he knew now only existed in dreams. 

he doesn't bother to pick up his phone to check the time, because he knows there'll be more texts and voicemails from harry, and yes it would've been easier for him to just shut off his phone, but it killed him to do that to harry. it was idiotic, but true. in all the years they'd dated, louis had never once shut his phone off on harry. not once. it had been an unspoken rule between the two that in case of an emergency, they'd never shut their phones off, and neither of them had ever thought much of it, but the memory wounded louis' being to the core–harry was hurting and louis couldn't help. not anymore. 

louis' old room smells of sweat and old tea, but his mum doesn't scold him to clean up or go in for a shower, because louis is just as fragile as a china set, and one step could really break him. he feels almost like a feather, like if he stands up he'll float up into nothingness and disappear, and there are times when he wishes he could do just that. 

louis did wonder what all of their friends would think–their old friends that they'd had before harry was too high to call back or louis' shifts were too long to call them over. some would spit in louis' face and yell 'i told you so', while others would be in utter shock because well, louis and harry breathed and lived for each other, that wasn't a secret. 

in the mix of the bad memories, there were beautiful ones, and louis found himself smiling at the recollection of some of them. he remembered the way harry would walk out of the shower, shaking his head like a dog and letting the sweetest smell of peaches engulf louis' senses as he laughed, eyes bright and nothing hurting. he recalled the poems harry would slip under his pillow or tape under his plates because god was it so cheesy, but it was so beautiful. he remembered how harry would look at him like he was a messiah, something holy and the only manifestation of beauty that there was. but, by far, his favourite memory was not of how much harry loved him, but how much he loved harry. it was a sort of love that never felt like it had ever been nonexistent–a love where louis wondered how the hell he'd ever lived not knowing harry existed. it was a love where he'd just turn his head and see harry mindlessly washing the dishes or pouring cereal and he'd have to bite his lip to stop the foolish smile from creeping onto his lips, because that was love–silly smiles and hearts pounding with adoration for whatever reason that couldn't be identified; love was the simple beauty of not knowing fully why you loved someone, but just knowing that's all you ever wanted to do. 

that morning, louis sipped warm tea that fell to the middle of his stomach, weighing him down, and any thoughts of harry brought lumps to his throat. he cried in his mums arms, her silent coos of kind words doing nothing to soothe the pain, and the itching, nauseating feeling had become too much to bear. he picked up his phone a few hours later, his mum biting her lip as she stepped out. louis' phone hovered over harry's contact, body trembling as he pressed the green button. he wanted to hear his voice in real time, one last time and tell him it wasn't his fault even though it was, and the conversation was all scripted in louis' head, but it didn't last. a tear fell from his swollen eyes to his lap as a robotic female voice echoed through the phone, stating that the number was no longer in service.


	3. lavender

the flat is empty. and not in the sense of lacking a couch or artwork on the walls–it's empty like a flower torn from it's roots, life seeping out. it's empty because all of the days, minutes, years, seconds spent in the cracking foundation of it, all gone the split second someone chooses to forget. he doesn't, though, but it's empty because the emptiness is an orphaned love matching an emotional sort of stench of the mould growing underneath the sink that used to leak. it's an emptiness of emotional abandonment and the choice to set in stone the feelings and words on dry paint and dust particles. it's all empty. the cold air leaves fingerprints on louis' nose and cheeks, and his throat is a sort of cold feeling that begins to numb his shoulders and chest, a headache forming at the base where his ears meet his skull, and he knows this is the feeling of emptiness. he wishes a soft tide of kisses and the smell of peaches could pick him up and take him in a place where this word didn't exist–a place where everything someone chose to abandon could be saved and stored and picked up at some point when everything was okay–a graveyard for love and pain. perhaps that already did exist, though, in his core, his heavy heart like a chain or some sort of metal blood flow in his veins. 

the flat looks the same, although it isn't. the hardwood floors are a lighter, dustier colour from where the old coffee table and torn couch had been, and if he tried hard enough to see it, he still could. he could still see him. it smelled of ammonia, and it made his head hurt, but no match to how his heart felt. it felt like a strange place that he'd never once been in before, yet every crack in the wall, every imperfection reminded him of the years he had spent living–no, surviving–in these walls. the small piece of chipped dry wall in the kitchen was from the day he'd been cooking and dropped a hot pan on the floor, the handle breaking off and chipping it. harry had kissed the rippling, hot skin on louis' fingers that been scorched until the colour disappeared and it was all okay because harry made everything okay. he remembered the sink creaked and leaked from harry's attempt to fix it because oh, harry had graduated from pastry school, so he could do anything. and although he hadn't graduated from pastry school and it was all a silly joke of his, the sink still leaked and louis had to keep the faucet on the left side each time, and sometimes he'd forget, but it was okay because the sink would spray him in such a way above his heart where harry would dab a towel and apologise but they both knew it was okay because water dried. it did. 

and he still remembered the way harry would curse when his head would bang against the assortment of hanging pans above the small island, and louis would laugh because harry had built it and louis couldn't reach it and it was all fun until bruises formed and the smell of peach shampoo turned into the smell of torn skin and drying blood.

he misses the way harry's voice would echo off of the walls, tickling his ears and playing the creaking strings of his heart. walking down the hallway was much more difficult. the old bathroom looked the same, and louis couldn't help himself but to walk in and stare at himself in the cracked mirror. the shattered piece ran through his face and made the middle of it completely disappear, and it was a shame that this was exactly how he felt–incomplete. there were stains of toothpaste on the surface of the sink that hadn't completely been wiped off, and old boxes of empty body lotion and cologne, once full and now empty and old and dusty. they no longer smelled pretty. 

the shower was perfectly bleached and disinfected, the dirty feeling of failure no longer engulfed by a plain sky blue shower curtain or cold water. it was open and exposed and it no longer belonged to louis. louis no longer belonged to it. he could almost see a reflection of himself, skin white and perked at the cold, icy stream of nearly frozen water hugging his skin and changing his hair colour from chestnut to deep brown. he could see himself crying under the stream, cries echoing and water entering his lungs as he'd try to catch his breath while harry was asleep in the bedroom high and dreaming of a better place that wasn't there. the bathroom was a wicked place where louis saw himself in fluorescent lights and droplets of water, so helpless and small and exposed–he didn't like the bathroom. 

louis feels limp. he feels completely helpless when he steps out of the bathroom, 5 steps to the silver doorknob of a grey door. their bedroom. past tense now because it was all gone. as the lock clicks and turns, it echoes tenfold, into louis' ears, the resonance right in his heart, and he wants so bad to see harry behind the door when he enters–he wants that more than anything, but it's gone–he'd left it behind and it was gone. plenty of boxes sit on the old hardwood floors, and a lump is in louis' throat because they are all labelled in harry's handwriting. (louis pretends not to see the box that says for lou, but he does, and small waves in his eyes turn into tsunamis overflowing the blue of it all and it hurts, his vision blurred like small bubbles underwater and it all feels so foreign, the memories now hurting like a knife digging and twisting and pulling it all out like tips of fingers on fresh bruises and torn skin, the hell of it all burning in louis' eyes.)

the boxes are closed messily, tape overlapping tape and jumpers seeping out of the corners, and it's ghostly–harry had been the last to see and touch these items, the last to smell whatever lingered on the cotton and materials of the last memories he'd have of louis, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't wish harry'd been selfish and stolen a jumper or two–even though he'd left harry, he was selfish and wanted to think that all harry would ever want was him, perhaps it was temporary–a temporary wound harry would learn to heal, but for this one moment he wanted to be selfish and believe all harry wanted and lived for was him.

he wants to pick them up, but they seem almost glued to the floor, permanently there in their own space and time where they can't be touched–removing them would mean drawing out the final memory of harry from the walls, the floors, and it feels like betrayal. their old bed is gone, nothing left but a dark shadow hollowed by the sunlight seeping through the windows, and it's dusty but it's there, stuck in the first moments of life. this room was once a sanctuary for them–a heaven with swollen lips and pretty words sighed into pillows that smelled of peaches, the only place where it was ever only them. greens and blues making a colour all new to all of existence and arms and a heartbeat that felt like home. arms so warm sweat would build but chilled lips and breath that smelt of peaches and tea melted away the fever of existing, and it was beautiful, the way their love manifested itself in such simple ways that to them seemed like everything. the way harry's soft fingertips would brush over louis' forehead in that way that'd sizzle his stomach and settle warmth in his cheeks. the way their bodies connected like perfect pieces of some puzzle that didn't exist. 

“i love you,” his voice was raw and soft as it whispered to no one, almost like a confession to himself seeping up like acid, burning in his throat, and he'd only come here to collect his things from the flat, but it seemed he was collecting and leaving other parts of himself as well. this was the thing–when he'd been young, his mother had talked to him about love. her experiences, at least. she'd once told him that love was selfish. it was okay to put yourself first–okay to want more, to want to give more because the best selfish thing to do was to give as much love as you could and take just the same in return. she'd taught him that sometimes the most selfish thing you could do was love someone with every part of everything that made up your being, and that had been exactly what louis had done. 

he'd been selfish and decided to love harry when everything seemed to be going to hell–loving harry was selfish and now he was being selfless for not wanting any of it back. he wanted harry to keep it all–to keep all of him. he'd loved so deeply and profusely, like a machine digging to the hot middle grounds of the earth, and that soil had been the way louis' heart would beat, so loudly his chest would vibrate and his lungs would ache and that was love–giving harry all of himself and not wanting any of it back. 

and now, looking at the empty room, he felt that love and all of those memories bending over like weak flowers–giving up and turning away from the sun. the sun was harry and louis was the flower, dehydration the deprivation of love and the green of his eyes had become the stem of louis' roots and he couldn't take it back–he'd never take it back. 

his phone vibrating in his pocket buzzed him out of his saddened state, fingers shaking as he tried to answer, sweat and oil building on the screen. 

“hello?” he sits back on the farthest wall from the door, the hallway staring back at him and seeming impossibly long and nauseating. 

“louis?” it's a female voice that takes a few seconds for him to recognise, but when he does, the pain just sprouts in his chest like molten lava. it's been three years since he's heard this voice. 

“gemma?” louis doesn't know why he asks, because he already knows it's her. the same sort of thick honey voice harry has, words pronounced the same and just as slow, and louis misses her. gemma was not only harry's older sister, but had grown close to louis in the early stages of their relationship. she'd been the first to pull louis aside and over warm cups of green tea reassured him that as much as louis loved harry, he loved him back just the same. she was a lovely person with a face just like harry's in a way that louis couldn't really pinpoint, and hearing her voice echo in the silence was a painful memory he wanted to just reach out and touch. 

“i–i know you br-”

“yeah–we aren't…” louis' voice wavers and he sucks in a breath because he hasn't said it out loud, and it hurts–speaking it will only put it under a microscope in painful light, and he can't do it. 

“i know, louis. hey, s'alright. just wanted to call and let you know he's here.”

a weight lifts off of louis' chest and he feels himself crying because god–he knew harry needed his family but the nagging question of if they'd ever take him back in ate away at his brain, and this was settling. harry was under a warm room with people who loved him still and it was okay. it was only the surface that was scratched of reassurance but damn was it okay, even if it was just a small spark. 

“i-is he…okay–like, not okay but, has h–”

“not even once. has been writing, writing so much i swear smoke'll be coming out the tip of his pen soon. emotionally–well, of course he's not okay, you–”

“i don't need to be reminded–i know.” 

louis feels relieved and surprised–and perhaps harry has finally found the substance, the passion to set aside the drugs–it stings in his heart. his tone is vicious, but he doesn't care. he knows very well what he's done and as much as he respects her, she doesn't need to kick him while he's done. 

(but you pushed yourself, he thinks.) 

“he misses you. so bad, it's hurting me so much. mum especially. he cries himself to sleep–has been ever since he got here. hits himself so bad he leaves bruises that make him look so small–he's a big lad but louis without you he might as well be a fly on the wall,” her voice gurgles in mixture with a runny nose and louis doesn't even want to picture it–he doesn't want to think about it—he can't bear the thought of harry hurting like that. replacing bloody noses with bruised arms and red eyes from dried out emotions; he wants him to be okay but their love was so real that if it didn't hurt it'd be worse–he likes to think it would be. 

he doesn't answer back, just sits in silence in the old bedroom as gemma sighs on the other end for a few minutes, and it's comforting. and louis knows she's trying to be gentle with what she says, trying to pick and pry the correct emotions that won't cause a storm to brew in his heart again. 

“thank you, for calling. i wouldn't mind if you rang me up every now and again.” 

gemma doesn't respond and louis knows she's nodding on the other end–something all harry's family members including him do out of habit without noticing, and it is the cutest thing–was. 

“want me to tell him anything?” 

oh, and is there. so many things. a book in his head of versus and stanzas and hymns and simple, complex words he'd love to say to harry, to utter and whisper and yell against his lips against his skin and hair that smells of peaches and the warmth that is entirely harry. wants him to know that even if it hurts it's what's best and although it's complete bullshit to the both of them, perhaps this was it all along–to collide then separate equally and just as rough as the beginning. he wants harry to know louis doesn't regret a single second of loving him. 

gemma waits, shuffling on the other end, and louis hears a fast high-pitched click and a deep usher of words somewhere beyond the phone. 

he's been put on speaker–harry is sat there somewhere, head in his hands probably, and it hurts and he wants to reach into the phone and feel his skin again. he knows him so well it seems that their thoughts and hearts and very existences are intertwined–and perhaps that's just the pain talking but louis feels the fire burning as hot as it ever had. love never died. there are so many things he wants to tell him but the simple speaker being on now seems like his whole heart is being projected on the moon, and his chest swells with adrenaline and fear because he knows harry is there and it's in real time; whatever he says harry will hear and perhaps find a sense of ease or sadness–maybe both. louis wants to speak until his lungs give out and his face is purple, but he feels exposed and unprepared, here–on speaker miles away from harry yet can somehow feel his warm breath on his face the way he used to. he'd give anything to see his rosy, chapped lips and eyes like stained glass again. and he's trying to get some sort of sentence created deep in his throat, something that will say it all, but he knows his voice will crack or maybe his heart will but now he can't tell the difference. 

he looks towards the window in attempt to clear his eyes of tears, but now it seems like they fall on their own accord. his heart feels grey–thick and grey like the type of paint that clings to walls, and grey like the hue in the clouds the second before thunder strikes. he feels grey and numb and all around pitiful. 

any sort of healing that'd built itself around his sensitive heart is now melting under the heat of a clenched chest and a rapid heartbeat. 

“is he gone?” 

his heart shatters and he hangs up with shaky hands. it'd been weeks since he's heard that voice, and it wasn't the addict. it was harry. full of raw pain and lack of sleep but it was him, and he sounded so hopeful and positively radiating with what could only be described as lavender, and then louis is back in the kitchen, harry's voice echoing in his head as he finds the plastic baggy under the sink, holding the lavender pieces of something that once used to be art. there are fewer pieces than he remembers, and he can tell harry had attempted to fix it before he'd left. he always did try to fix everything, that one, but all that came of it were wrong measurements and wet shirts and burnt toast. 

harry was a beautiful mess labelled lavender and louis now holds pieces of the pale colour in his hands. harry's question vibrates in his mind, and no–he's not gone. if harry is lavender then louis is the setting thoughts of nothing but a world made of mauve, and the more he juggles the pieces in his hands the more he thinks that jars can be shattered and the smell of peach shampoo does fade but in the scheme of it all, it's never really gone.

**Author's Note:**

> i really would love to continue this–make it a short story if not at least 3 parts or so, but i'd love feedback so i know it's not complete shit.


End file.
